Lover Dearest
by devirnis
Summary: "It had become routine somehow, after their night in that shack outside Port Farrall… It had happened once and then again and again, like the floodgates had been opened and they couldn't find a way to stop." Sequel to Dirty Little Secret.


**Author's Note:** The sequel to _Dirty Little Secret_ that nobody asked for!

(Just kidding, a few people did ask for it, I told myself I wouldn't, but then I got bored at work and this happened.)

Do yourself a favour and listen to Lover Dearest by Marianas Trench and then cry about it with me.

* * *

_So leave me_

_I'm not sick of you yet_

_Is that as good as it gets_

* * *

**I.**

"What the hell was that about earlier?"

Baird ignored her; sometimes it worked, but other times she was too stubborn to just drop it. Looked like this evening would be one of those times. He could tell from the way her mouth barely moved as his lips worked against hers. She was mad—not that _that_ was anything new. They were _always_ mad at each other it seemed, especially recently. Crabby and irritated because they had moved to an island with a population that didn't want them there, and now the local Stranded were stepping up their game in violent and sadistic ways, and because they still weren't talking about what they were doing late at night when everybody else was asleep.

He was getting rather annoyed with her unresponsiveness—he didn't want to fuck a mannequin—so he backed off, heaving a frustrated sigh just to make sure she knew how irked he was.

"What was _what_ about earlier?" he asked tersely.

Sam folded her arms across her chest. "In the mess. You didn't need to be such an asshole."

He didn't even try to hold back his sharp bark of laughter. "_Excuse me_? At what point did I agree to stop being an asshole to you?"

Her face darkened. "Never. But that doesn't give you the right to treat me—"

"Like everybody else?" he snapped. Fuck, she was pissing him right off. She wasn't anything exceptional; he didn't owe her any special treatment. This thing they had—this friends-with-benefits thing, except they sure as hell weren't _friends_—it didn't entitle her to his good side. Only Cole got to see that side of him, if there even was one, and that was only because he'd spent nearly sixteen years breaking down Baird's walls. "Don't kid yourself into thinking that you're special."

"Oh, fuck you."

For a second, Baird thought she was going to storm out and leave him with blue balls, but then she grabbed him roughly by the front of his shirt and hauled him in for a bruising kiss. Oh, so it was going to be like that. Fine. It suited him just fine.

They ripped each other's clothes off with just a little too much ferocity, tearing seams and old holes open. He'd hate her for it, when they were done—he couldn't sew for shit, even after fifteen years of being told he needed to learn—but right then he didn't give a flying fuck. It was business as usual; the want and need curling in his belly, his desperation to be satisfied, the sheer force of will it took to forget who he was doing it with.

He had it down to a science by this point. It had become routine somehow, after their night in that shack outside Port Farrall, during the snowstorm all those weeks back. He couldn't really remember how it had started. Not that it mattered at this point, he decided as he shoved her backwards onto his bed and clambered on top of her. All that mattered was that it had happened, once, and then again and again, like the floodgates had been opened and they couldn't find a way to stop.

Sure, they had tried a few times, both of them. He'd made her swear not to talk after that snowy night, but only days later he'd shown up at her door well after dark, late enough that she'd known exactly what he wanted as soon as she'd seen him standing there. Afterwards she'd tried to dissuade him from coming again, joking that it was hard enough to keep one time a secret. He would have left her alone, too, if she hadn't come to him a week later. A silent understanding had been established between them after that, and now, almost every night, they kept finding themselves in each other's arms.

Her nails dug into his back, the sharp sting of pain jolting him back to the present. She could be vicious when she wanted to be, when he'd pissed her off—which was more often than not. Well, he could be rough right back. He pushed into her with a little too much force, and he definitely did _not _almost grin when she made a high-pitched keening sound. This was about satisfaction and nothing else. They both just wanted to get their rocks off and it just so happened that they could do that with each other.

His teeth left purple and red marks along her skin, strategically placed so that they would be hidden under her clothes. She retaliated by fisting his hair and pulling hard. He couldn't help the growl that rumbled out of his throat; it was like a battle, each trying to get the other to relent first. Damon Baird didn't back down from fights, even if he was outmatched. He was too bullheaded, and he got the feeling that Sam was as well.

Maybe they were more suited for each other than he cared to admit.

* * *

_My tongue's turning black_

_But I'll take you back_

_You're still the best, more or less, I guess_

* * *

**II.**

When he fucked her now, she thought of Dom.

He could tell by the way she screwed her eyes shut, so tight because she didn't want a glance of the man who was _really_ inside her to ruin the vision of the man she _wished_ was inside her.

Baird knew it, _hated_ it, but he didn't stop. He didn't want to stop, even if her heart was further away than it had ever been. He shouldn't have cared how she felt. God knew he never had before—when it had just been the two of them, with no fantasies as a barrier between them. But now… Now. It was different. She was different. Distant. It shouldn't have changed anything for him, but somehow it did.

He had considered stopping it, this thing of theirs. Briefly. But the night he'd entertained the sour notion, Sam had showed up at his door. Like it was some kind of sign. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Either way, he hadn't stopped seeing her. Maybe he was too selfish, too cowardly, to quit.

Maybe he just liked pain.

He got a sick sense of satisfaction from the marks he left on her skin now. They were still hidden, of course. Sam had threatened to castrate him if he ever gave her a hickey that she couldn't cover up. But he knew that when she undressed and caught glimpses of her bruised skin, she would remember him_._ Even if she wanted to lie to herself, to pretend that another man had made those marks, she would be forced to think about _him_, however briefly.

Suddenly she tightened around him, and then he was tumbling over the edge after her. Over the rushing blood in his ears, he heard her whisper, "_Dom_…"

Something under his breastbone shifted, and then sank into his stomach.

After, they dressed in silence and he quietly—shamefully—slipped out of her room into the cool night air. Even if he didn't hurry, he would be able to make it back to his side of _Sovereign_ without running into anyone. But he found himself sprinting, his footsteps oddly silent without the heavy Gear boots. He felt like a ghost as he breezed through the still corridors.

Running from something. Running towards nothing.

* * *

_I'll just try to hide it_

_Or I could slip into you_

_It's so easy to come back into you_

* * *

**III.**

They were tucked away in a back corner of Pinnacle Tower. Baird had retreated back into the hotel after he'd grown bored of looking at the sunset over the ocean. Pretty, sure, but now that the grubs and glowies were gone forever, there'd be plenty of time to stare at sunsets. He'd been quite content to spend the rest of the evening in antisocial solitude, until Sam had sauntered up beside him.

"'Take care of yourself,' huh?" She smiled at him—a new smile, one he hadn't seen on her before. Usually she flashed him a quick, bitter grin when he said something that cut particularly deep. This was different. It was warm and tentative, and he was mildly embarrassed that this sheepish smile brought a flush to his cheeks.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying his best to avoid making eye contact. "Yep. That's what I said."

He'd said it because he thought he was going to die. Dom was gone and that announcement had shaken him to his core. It meant that Delta Squad wasn't as indestructible as he'd thought. It meant that he'd lost a friend—or whatever the hell Dom had been to him. And in that moment, when he was confused and floundering and trying to both process and _not_ process the news, he couldn't restrain himself.

"_Take care of yourself, okay?" Come back alive, because I can't lose you too._

While he was still being horrifically awkward, trying to figure out what to say next, she stepped forward and kissed him. They'd kissed plenty of times before, but not like this. Nothing like this. This kiss was chaste, cautious, searching. Her lips brushed lightly against his, a little dry perhaps, but wonderfully soft. Even though he'd seen her naked and sweaty beneath him, this was somehow ten times more exhilarating.

She was kissing him because she _wanted_ _to kiss him_. He wasn't a stand-in for another man, nor was it a brief prelude to getting him into bed simply to satisfy some primal desires. This was the start of something different. Something _more_.

And then she was pulling away. He made a small, involuntary noise—something that sounded dangerously close to a whine of protest—and then quickly snapped his mouth shut. She wasn't ready. _Of course_ she wasn't ready. Dom had just died, for fuck's sake. What was he thinking, how could he have even dreamed—

"I need time," she said quietly. "But this… is still something I want. If you do."

"Yeah," he gasped, his voice ragged. "Yeah, I do."

She smiled again, and it went straight to the weakest parts of him. Then she turned and walked away, out of the hotel, back towards the beach. He stood terribly still for a long moment, scared that he'd suddenly jolt awake in his bunk back on _Sovereign_. The past few days had been a whirlwind; it would take some time before he would be able to permanently convince himself that he wasn't dreaming.

_Time_.

What a foreign concept. He had time now. Time to pass, time to kill, time to wait. And he didn't mind waiting for her. This thing of theirs—this new, timid but willing thing—it seemed like something worth waiting for.

**END.**


End file.
